


A Dish Best Served Hot

by Ghanima_Starkiller



Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 07:47:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghanima_Starkiller/pseuds/Ghanima_Starkiller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the last moment of his life, Donny dreams of the face of the screen as flames consume them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dish Best Served Hot

She’s a goddess in black and white; an Old Testament avenging angel as her countenance looms large on the screen; her presence dominates the room and is soon consumed by the fickle red tongues of the flames that surround them both. Her laughter is triumphant as it fills the burning auditorium, overwhelming the panicked screams of those trapped within. Donny Donowitz is one of those trapped inside, but he’s not running around like a chicken with its head cut off. He’s scared, sure—he’d always hoped he wouldn’t have to die to fulfill his mission but he realizes now that he does so gladly.

And he knows that, whoever she is, she’s the same as him. That something has led them both to this point in their lives, given them this chance and he wants to share it with her.

They say that your life flashes before your eyes right before you die. For Donny, it’s different: what he sees as he riddles that motherfucker with about a hundred new breathing holes is the future, or what could have or should have been, if the world hadn’t been fucked all to hell.

He sees the girl from the movie sitting beneath a tree in a lush and leafy meadow. It’s all too unreal, artificial; the colors are wrong, they’re too bright, too vibrant. It’s too perfect, like a scene from one of those magazines his mom reads or a movie in Technicolor. She’s in red, sitting on a red-and-white checked gingham picnic blanket, wicker basket sitting beside her folded legs. She’s thin, a bit on the bony side for his tastes but stunning nonetheless. Her hair is gold in the sun, her lips plump and pink.

He’s drawn to her, lying beside her in an instant as she smiles down at him serenely, as if to tell him that everything was going to be okay now. He had a gal back home, a sturdy American girl named Amy with cherry pie cheeks and curls to match. She never cared for these skinny Minnies that pass for French ladies until he met… He realizes he doesn’t even know her name. But they know each other, more than Amy could ever know him. What if he’d come back from the war? He wonders idly as he plays with the hem of Shoshanna’s—yes, that’s her name: Shoshanna!—dress if he’d ever have been able to have a conversation with Amy again. She wouldn’t know, wouldn’t understand the things he’d seen or done.

Shoshanna knows though, which is why she’s here with him now. At the end. She understands pain and the urge for retribution. His very own revenging angel. She made this end possible.

He slides his hand across her calf; her skin is like fresh cream, as smooth and the color of. His nickname, The Bear Jew, is well earned: he’s large, burly, with arms thick with muscle. His hands are rough, callused, fingernails torn and dirty. She seems at first in complete contrast: she’s petite with a trembling smile and wide, delicate eyes. She seems almost fragile. But he knows this is only appearance: underneath, she is steel. She is a flower in the wind: the slender green stem may bow and even bend, but it will never break. And she’s been tested in ways he’s not yet even begun to imagine.

She murmurs something in French as she leans over to kiss his mouth, his hand slipping further up her skirt to stroke the soft skin of her thigh. She’s not wearing panties; the soft down between her legs brushes across his knuckles. He loves French girls. His coarse fingertips trace the soft parting of the lips of her moist cleft a moment before he slips them inside, tasting her breathless moan against his lips, watching hungrily as her eyes drift closed.

He slides in knuckle deep, two fingers slithering through those deliciously slick folds, fitting more than snugly up inside of her. He knows to crook his fingers, to caress that place within her; it makes her gasp, squirm, rubbing salivating sex against his cupped palm. His thumb finds her clit and grinds the pad of his fingertip in circles against the taut nub, making her cry out. She has to brace her thin arms against the blanket on either side of his head to keep from collapsing atop him, the sounds flying from her lips as they kiss and kiss again are guttural, hoarse. She’s not afraid to voice her own pleasure; she’s abandoned, wild. Again, Donny considers how much he adores French girls, and Europeans in general, but then chastises himself because he knows that this is all Shoshanna, it is only and uniquely her.

Removing his hand, he brings it to his mouth, licking her flavor from his fingers with relish, savoring the taste of her sweetly brackish cream as she regards him, her eyelids fluttering down over those deep, pale eyes that remind him of the sea. They stay like that for a moment, they faces only a breath apart with only his hand between his lips to hinder the passionate kisses they exchange. Her small hands grasp at the cotton of his t-shirt, pulling him toward her, attempting to urge him atop her.

He resists; he’s much bigger than she is and he fears for crushing her if he mounts and flops around on top of her. There’s only one thing for it, he decides, putting his hand back on her thigh and drawing her against his hip. She smiles in understanding, lifting one leg and bringing it down on the other side of his waist straddling him as she lifts her skirt; the gesture reminds him of a little girl playing with her Sunday dress, raising the hem and twirling it in her fingers. He realizes now how hard he is, like he’s about to burst right through the zipper of his trousers.

With nimble fingers she undoes the clasp of his pants, sliding them down his hips until she can free his engorged cock. In proportion with the rest of him, the rigid column of his flesh is sizeable, generously endowed in both length and girth and she has to grasp him around the base, hold his heavy manhood up and guide him toward the sweltering entrance of her body. She keeps her skirts hiked up above her waist so that he can watch as she slowly takes him in, inch by inch sliding down his erect and unyielding pole.

At first, all he can do is throw his head back and groan, clenching his teeth at the tightness of her clasping about him and the frenzied throbbing pulse of those constricting walls. When he can again control himself enough to open his eyes, he sees that she’s grinning at him, moaning as she rises and falls, displaying for him the view of his own cock, well oiled with her body’s juices as it slides out of her, the soft petals of her nymphae clinging around his breadth as if reluctant to give him up before swallowing him up again.

He can only take it for a moment before he takes hold of her waist and begins to move against her, bucking up into her as she rode him; she tumbled forward over him, her hair falling over her shoulders like autumn sunshine, caressing his face as he leans forward to place his kisses against her long, slender neck, her jaw, her full mouth. He wants it to last forever but too soon he feels himself standing at the edge of that unfathomable precipice, the tension in his groin coiling, tightening like a rope, desiring only release.

She finishes before him, clutching his cock violently within her soft depths, pulling him deeper still with the silken undulations of her inner muscles, milking every inch of him as the plump crown nestled into the neck of her womb, releasing a molten flood of his seed. He pumps into her once, twice, three times before spending himself completely.

They’re a tangle of sweaty limbs and hungry mouths in those moments after climax, petting one another tenderly, intimately. When they are at last settled, she is lying beside him, her arms draped over his shoulders, her arms clasped together behind his bed as they lay on their sides, facing each other. She speaks, and this time he understands her words. “You are not alone,” she tells him sweetly, quietly, in a husky murmur. “We are together.”

And he comprehends finally that they are more alike than he could ever have guessed: she is dead, too. They died for this, for revenge. It takes less than the space of a blink to see and experience all of this, and he’s back in the theater, the rattle of his gun dying down in his hands. He thinks, at the very last, that he can feel Shoshanna take his hand. He was wrong: his vision wasn’t what was ever meant to be; this was.

He wonders what he has ever done in his short life to deserve, even in this flight of the imagination which becomes more and more real as the world burns around him, to deserve this Jewess goddess at his side. “Revenge,” she whispers to him, and then they’re both gone.


End file.
